Archive of Our Own

They say it lurks in the woods, feeding on fear and desperation- a beast born from oblivion. The weak and the brave, many were sent forth into the trees, never to return. Taken in the night, their existence wiped from the face of the earth. Some went forth to confess their sins, weary legs carrying them to a blissful end. Others attempted to best the nightmare, hoping to shape it to their will. Most simply prayed, hoping for a release from the cycle of death and madness. 

The creature shifts like quicksilver, gathering its form like wisps of smoke from a candle. It rises up in the dark, melted ice dripping from branches where shadowed tendrils lie like sleeping snakes. Darkness coils and curls around in formless shapes where it rests, the flurried white ground stained an ugly crimson, carnage spread around. The beast sighs, the sound like a monotonous buzzing of wasps, thousands of angry voices coalesced into one hive mind. An empty glow radiates from its eyeless gaze. Darkness spills like oil into the surrounding night, pulsing with vengeful desire. As the dawn begins, the black mass slowly fades away, leaving emptiness and destruction in its wake. The trees stand tall and silent, watching.

*

The woods, near the border of Temeria and Redania. 

Snow falls in heavy drifts from the sky as light begins to filter dimly through the tall trees. Barren branches poke through the white landscape, grasping like beggars hands at the chill air. The ground crunches loudly underfoot as Geralt traipses through the frozen undergrowth, leading Roach closely behind him. The forest is quiet and still, the afternoon taking over from morning as the weary sun makes its way across the clouded sky. He continues forwards along a small worn path, listening for any other movement around him. Roaches saddle bags clink quietly, the metal sheen of his sword hilts reflecting the light as they jostle against each other, strapped tightly across his back. The severed head of a Drowner hangs limply in a bag at the horse's side, emitting a rotten sickly odor. 

Geralt was not supposed to be traveling through this forest, but he found himself passing this way due to an odd feeling, a sort of pervasive hunch. A lingering sense of dread plagued this particular area, blanketing the trees and seeping into the soil with a heavy dullness. When he’d passed the dark lines of trees earlier in the day, he was struck with the unshakeable desire to wander inside. There may be monsters at work here , he had told himself, in a poor attempt to justify his actions. He had followed many a hunch in the past… with varying success. Besides, he had been lacking in work and could do with the extra coin. 

Thus Geralt found himself wandering completely off course into a small forested region of north-west Temeria, just short of the river, chasing after a mere hunch. These days he often lets his curiosity get the better of him. He had business in Novigrad to attend to by the end of the week- some contract about a Wraith infestation- but it looked like it was going to have to wait. He’d felt the strange pull from the trees, caught faint whispers floating on the wind as he rested under the boughs of an ancient oak at night. Something was going on in these woods, and Geralt was determined to figure it out. Birds caw hoarsely in the clear sky above him as he walks on, circling lazily in the frigid air. A lone twig snaps loudly under his foot; his horse snorts.

“I wonder where all the people went, and the animals too. There’s hardly a sound except you and me eh, Roach?” 

At some point the small earth trodden path widens into a larger road, completely devoid of anyone else. The emptiness is almost alarming, no signs of any recent travel or foot traffic at all. He continues forwards, in the hope of finding some sort of settlement further up the way. He suddenly notices the hulking skeleton of a frozen carriage wheel laying abandoned on one side of the road, and he pauses to remark upon the ground once again. No external marks of travel, yet the compact iciness of the earth did suggest frequent use. More snow has fallen lightly over the ground, yet some leaves are still visible underfoot, meaning something must have passed that way earlier on and disturbed the fresh snowfall. No doubt it was whatever unlucky travelers decided to head in this direction via horse and cart. A shame they didn’t get very far. No horses in sight either. He supposed they had bolted the minute any trouble had appeared. Bandits weren’t uncommon in woods as remote as these, and neither were gangs, but the situation seemed to suggest a lack of human interference. Humans were brash, stupid, and most importantly they left tracks, signs. Here, there were none.

Perhaps they’d had the misfortune of encountering a stray pack of wolves, or an angry bear. Animals around these parts tended to verge on the vicious side, attacks were often taken as a normal occurrence. The lack of viscera and other wreckage in the vicinity suggested another cause. Some sort of magical interference, or a particularly crafty monster? 

Geralt throws a pointed glare at his horse, urging her to stay quiet as his hand drifts up to the steel sword strapped at his back, the worn leather fitting his grip perfectly. He begins to slowly approach the wheel to investigate. It’s still dusted lightly with snow, a sign it hasn’t been abandoned long- he’d guess around a few hours at most. He grabs an edge and tugs it out of the tuft of snow where it’s lodged, revealing a surface of scorched wood, with several long gashes tracing up one side. The snow is muddied and rust colored in the cavity left by the absent wheel. 

Geralt ponders the evidence. Behind him, Roach snorts with indifference. 

“Hmm.”

The wood is blackened and cracked near the damaged areas, and a fine black powder rubs off onto his fingertips when he touches it. Upon further inspection the wood is coated in a layer of something sticky and viscous, concentrated around the damaged edges. Geralt reluctantly draws the substance to his lips, checking for traces of poisons, potions or other magical ingredients. He recoils at its foul stench, like rusted iron and fetid smoke. When rubbed between his fingers, they become stained red and black- blood and ash. The area reeks of magic too, like the lingering presence of a particularly heavy blanket. Not the sharp scent of mages, but something different, older and less refined. It makes his medallion grow cold against his chest. Geralt was certain an attack happened here, recently, yet there was little disturbance after the initial damage had been done. He was dealing with a brutal, fast and efficient killer. 

Something about the claw marks in particular still bugged him, their shape and circumstances nagging at the back of his mind, leading him to believe they weren’t really made by claws at all. Their shape was too even, too smooth to be natural, as if someone had carved perfectly shaped tubes out of the surface of the wood. Like some sort of corrosive appendage or tentacle, he thinks. This is unusual, as he’d expect to find those traits in a water dwelling creature, yet they were very far inland from the river.

“A peculiar attack, no footprints in sight, although the snow surely took care of that. Better to follow the path, see if it leads me back to wherever this cart came from. I feel we are getting close to trouble.”

Behind him, Roach stamps her hooves with impatience.

“Indeed Roach, let’s hope trouble is an easy kill.”

The snow around the scene remains frustratingly newly fallen and crystal clear. He tosses the scorched wheel back to the ground and stalks back to Roach to survey the scene from a distance. Next to the place where the wheel rested there are other misshapen lumps of snow. He decides to rather unprofessionally kick around at the mounds, water seeping into his boots as the snow passes over them, until he hits something solid. He bends down to retrieve the mysterious item, and flinches slightly as he comes face to face with a cleanly severed hand, perfectly intact. Despite the initial surprise, he continues holding on firmly to its cold skin, turning it over curiously. What tattered fabric is left on it has turned pure black, with a brittle texture. The flesh has been preserved from the cold, stiff but otherwise as if it had still been attached to a living person. Well, almost. The flesh is stained and marred as if burnt, the fingers blackened like coal, the affliction spread all the way down the wrist. The hand and wrist are small and slim, a woman’s hand. One finger even bears a small silver band, pure silver . Geralt files that information away in his mind for later. There was no doubt about it now, he was dealing with a monster, and not a wild animal. Why else would it have left a perfectly good arm for feasting on, when no other human remains are to be found at the scene of the crime, if it weren’t for this tiny bit of silver? 

“I sense a new job on the horizon Roach. Let’s hope they have the temperament and the coin for it. With a village this far up the forest, it’s likely they won’t take kindly to someone like me interfering with their business.” 

He mounts his horse and gives her a gentle nudge, riding forwards quickly along the earthen path. He’d have to hurry if he wanted to prevent anyone else from succumbing to the same blackened fate. 

*

The village is dead quiet when Geralt reaches it, his horse neighing softly as he dismounts. There are no people to be seen. Snow melts off the remnants of a frozen, half built wall, a skeletal defense against… something. Makeshift wooden spikes stick out at odd angles along its surface, as if added hastily in afterthought. A stable sags sadly outside the entrance, the wood saturated with water that drips slowly from the roof. Reluctantly, Geralt ties Roach up to a half rotted post, and carefully enters the village on foot. The houses lay dormant, their doors fastened shut, yet he can just about pick up the sounds of a tavern in the distance, the cautious clink of glasses and hasty whispers. His hand hovers over the swords fastened at his back as he walks, keeping an eye out for any sudden movement. He spots an inn as he rounds the corner, nestled neatly in between several low, cramped buildings. There is candlelight filtering through the windows, and the steady hum of humanity echoes from within. A notice board stands faded beside a rusted hanging sign that reads ‘ The Singing Swallow’ . By the looks of it, the notices and contracts have not been updated for several weeks. Geralt relaxes slightly, adopting a casual, disinterested expression before entering the building. 

The whole room quietens as he walks in, gazes sharp and focused straight on him. No doubt glancing suspiciously at the broad shouldered, white haired man dressed in studded armor who clearly doesn’t fit in with the village peasantry. He stares down the innkeeper with a level amber gaze before cracking a smile to ease the tension. The man blanches slightly, the exact opposite effect he wanted. Geralt sighs, he knew his smile was often interpreted as threatening, in Dandelion's opinion he looked ‘like a Wolf hunting down its prey.’ The Witcher speaks sternly towards the man, eager to get some information out of him.

“Are you going to get me a drink, or not? It’s impolite to gawk at your customers.” 

To his credit, the man stares back solidly, his face a hard mask of distrust. Geralt slides onto one of the wooden stools, setting his swords down to rest against the wall. A few customers peer down at them from over their drinks. The innkeeper slides him a pint of ale and he slips a coin onto the counter.

“We don’t need your kind around here. Us folks don’t want no trouble Mister, and it follows your lot around like the plague wherever ye go.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. He was right to assume the closed mentality of this village. Their level of suspicion towards Witchers has been duly noted. 

“I can sense the hostility, so I’ll be quick. Do you know about the carriage that was overturned just outside your walls? It looked like an attack. Wild dogs or wolves are likely, but perhaps it could be something else? No village goes through the trouble of putting spikes on its walls just to warn off the occasional rabid animal.”

The room noticeably stills, people turning their heads away nervously. A few even slink out the front door, exiting a little too quickly. 

“Wild animal attack. Not like we haven’t dealt with them before. You can go home Witcher , there are no monsters here.”

Geralt sips his drink calmly, and a movement behind the counter catches his eye. A brief flash of brown hair, a red skirt, the rustle of clothes against the floorboards. He tilts his head to one side, but the mysterious watcher is gone. The innkeeper is still glaring at him. The stares are starting to put him on edge, he's decided he doesn't like this village very much.

“Listen, I don’t want any trouble, I’m just passing through. I’ll stay the night and be gone by morning. I thought there may be work for me here, I’m just as strapped for coin as everyone else is.”

His response seems to diminish the man's growing anger, but he continues to be watchful the entire night, throwing nervous glances towards the door to the back room every so often. Geralt guesses his concern is for the woman he saw earlier. The inn door crashes open just as he is finishing his second drink, causing heads to turn. A tall, disheveled man stumbles in, shaking with fear. He is wearing a leather apron, fingers stained with soot, his features drawn tight with worry. His eyes scan the room frantically. The innkeeper stares him down, expression filled with malice. It’s somehow even more spiteful than the glares he’d been directing towards Geralt the whole evening. The Witcher edges towards his swords, avoiding eye contact- he didn’t particularly feel like getting in the middle of a tavern brawl at this hour. 

“I got word of a Witcher passing through here. Please, I need your help, it’s a matter of great urgency!”

The innkeeper scowls from behind the bar. Geralt stands up immediately, reaching for his swords out of instinct. His mind calms as his hand curls comfortably around one of the worn pommels. He turns to address the man rationally and politely, the innkeep staring daggers down his back.

“Geralt of Rivia, at your service. What kind of help do you need?” 

The man looks nervous, wringing his hands upon his sooty apron. Geralt catches him muttering under his breath, the White Wolf himself . He watches the man's gaze roam across his medallion, the two swords laying by his side, finally coming to rest upon his amber eyes. 

“It’s an urgent matter. But you see, we can’t discuss it here.”

This piques Geralt's interest. First a completely dead village, whose innkeeper insists nothing is wrong, and now a man who clearly knows otherwise. Finally a man of sense, he thinks, and a business opportunity. He offers a curt nod of understanding, turning back to the bar. 

“I’ll take a room upstairs.”

He tosses a few coins on the counter as the innkeeper begrudgingly hands over a set of rusted keys. Geralt motions for the nervous man to follow him, and they retreat into a small bedroom on the first floor. He locks the door behind them, propping his swords up against the wall. The other man sits precariously down on the thin bed, whilst the Witcher leans against the door. 

“So, what do you have to tell me? I’ll be willing to listen, so long as there’s decent pay. I’m not some heroic Knight, and I don’t do charity work.”

The man looks at him with pleading eyes, his bottom lip quivering as he starts to shake again. 

“My wife, she was one of the first to be taken. A few weeks ago. They found her in the woods, well, no body , but the silver bracelet that she wore was left lying in the snow amidst the carnage.”

The Witcher starts by asking his usual slew of questions. The man looks increasingly more alarmed by the second, his eyes unfocused, foot tapping an irregular rhythm on the ground.

“Have you had any problems with monsters in your village before? Do you or your wife have any enemies? Are there bandits or gangs operating in this area that you know of? Any mention or sightings of the Scoia'tael in this region?”

“I’m just a blacksmith Geralt, I don’t have any enemies. I don’t know of any human who would do this. It’s not just my wife either, people have been going missing over the past month and nobody here wants to even acknowledge it. The innkeeper down there? His wife’s gone mad with fear. They said she saw the thing, a creature , that’s what takes them in the night. That’s what it is isn’t it? It has to be… a monster.”

The blacksmith puts his hands in his head and moans, lost in the fear of the memory. He looks up again, his eyes watery. 

“Please Witcher, you have to do something. The villagers are stubborn and don’t want to accept help, but I can’t stand by and watch other people lose their families just as I have. If you rid us of this beast, I’m sure you’ll be paid handsomely for your work. Whether the villagers want to accept your help or not, we really do need it.”

Geralt addresses the man calmly, after thinking over this new information for some time. People were dying, that much was obvious. They will continue to die until action is taken. But, was he really going to accept the word of one grieving man as a guarantee? 

“Are you sure it’s a monster? Where did it come from? What does it look like? I need some proof before I can accept the job fully. You’d be surprised how many times a man or a rabid animal was the ‘monster’ in question. How am I to be sure it’s not some villager gone rampant? I don’t wish to waste my time.”

Of course Geralt was certain something strange was going on, but he wanted to push the man a little, to test his trustworthiness. The blacksmith looks down at his feet, wringing his hands in his lap. 

“You must talk to Ilka, the innkeeper's wife. She will have the answers you seek. I’m sorry I can’t help you any further.”

“Hmm. Very well. I’ll consider looking into it. You can go.”

The blacksmith stands up meekly, brushing past him on the way out. He stumbles on a loose floorboard in the hallway as he leaves.

“Thank you, I’ll pay you myself if it comes down to it.”

*

In the wake of the blacksmith's departure, Geralt had much to think about. The villagers seemed reluctant to face whatever plagued their village, and the only witness he had was being heavily protected. He sits upon the worn, old bed in the middle of the room and it creaks under his weight. He looks out of the small shuttered window as he twines the chain of his medallion around his fingers absently. A thick fog curls through the streets below, as empty as he’d seen them when he had wandered in this afternoon. The forest looms over the houses, the trees acting as dark, watchful guardians. Geralt hardly notices the soft knock upon his door. His heightened hearing can just make out the faint, even breathing of a person on the other side. They sound nervous.

“Who has come to see me so late at night? Enter.”

The door slides open hesitantly as the brown haired woman from earlier steps inside. She looks into his eyes with a measure of uneasy fear. The room is dark, but he can see her worried face clearly. 

“My husband forbade me to speak to you, so I have come here as he sleeps. I promise to be brief.”

He guesses this is Ilka, the witness the blacksmith spoke of. She could provide him with crucial information, so he had to act polite. Geralt gestures for her to sit, and she takes the rickety chair by the door. 

“I was told you’d have some answers for me. I have already spoken to the blacksmith, who fears your village has come under siege by monsters. However, I require more information before I consider taking this job. You have seen the creature I am to deal with. Is that so?”

Ilka looks at him with a level gaze, fiddling with a thin cord around her neck. Geralt feels a vague itching sensation where his medallion touches his skin. He scratches absently at the leather collar of his jacket. 

“Yes. I’ve seen the creature, and felt it beckon to me at night. It lives in the woods.”

Her red skirt flows onto the floor like an ugly crimson stain, her hands restless and her gaze shifting. She appears uneasy around him, perhaps afraid the innkeeper will wake up and notice her absence. Geralt senses something off about her mannerisms, they are almost too precise, too calculated. He stares her down harder, and she reacts appropriately, her gaze slipping from his. 

“Is there anything more you can tell me?”

“Sometimes I feel a strange pull. I think that’s how it gets its victims, by luring them out of the village. One night I left the Inn, I was curious, the feeling overwhelming me. No sooner had I left the village walls did I see it. A wall of shadows, creeping as a mist does on a cold winter’s morning. I turned and fled immediately, and have not dared to leave my home at night since.” 

“No noises? No smells? Did you see anything else unusual in the vicinity?”

“There was rustling, like weathered paper. A strange chill crept up on me, but that may have just been the night air. That’s all I can remember.”

Interesting. Perhaps the mist was simply hiding a cunning werewolf, or provided additional cover for a Bruxas hunting spree. Nevertheless, a creature made or concealed in shadows was something new, something to be wary of. The woman clearly looks anxious to leave, yet she makes no immediate move to do so. 

It was at this moment Ilka produced the necklace which she had been fiddling with between her fingers, the cord looked rough and handmade. He’d thought nothing of it, except now he could clearly see the strange, irregularly shaped gem affixed to it. Setting his eyes upon it, something about its very presence seemed wrong. He knew he needed to inspect it further, but as for how to do so, that would require some quick thinking. 

“That’s an interesting necklace you have there. Pretty stone, black is an unusual color for a gem, reminds me of a friend.”

He pauses, flinching at the distant memory that pushes its way to the surface. A flash of raven black hair, the whisper of an airy laugh, a bare hint of lilac and gooseberries. Geralt tears himself away from the memory, this was not a moment for idle fantasies. 

“Can I take a look at it? I wish to have a mage replicate its likeness.”

Ilka shrinks back into her chair defensively,both hands clutching the necklace. His feeling of unease grows as he slowly approaches, offering a hand. He looks at her intently, amber eyes burning, before casting the Sign of Axii. A look of confusion flashes across her face before it eases back to a content neutrality.

“I think you should show it to me.”

She unfastens the cord and slips the necklace into his hand. Immediately a chill spreads up his arm. He turns the cord over in his fingers, inspecting the gem more closely. The gem resembles more of a rough hewn stone, about the size of half his finger. It’s pitch black in color, reflecting the light strangely, almost seeming to absorb it. It feels cool in his fingers, as if taken freshly from a stream. It doesn’t look like any material found naturally in the area. 

“Where did you get this from?”

“My husband gave it to me… Witcher, I don’t see what my necklace has to do with monsters.”

The stone grows increasingly cold in his fingers, and his medallion starts to hum, vibrating more strongly with every second. He hands the necklace back to the woman, sighing sadly. Just like he feared, there were powerful forces at work here. The stone reeked of magic. 

“Do you know where he got it from?”

Ilka looks at him quizzically, as if trying to read his thoughts. The Sign is wearing off, the clarity returning to her gaze.

“He told me he found it in the woods, lying among the brush. Said he thought it was an odd stone, and I should turn it into something pretty. I hear him stirring down the hall, I must depart. Beware of the shadows, they are watching, Witcher.”

Ilka gathers herself, departing as swiftly as she arrived. Geralt is left wondering, assessing the strangeness of their interaction. Not to mention, how did a common villager end up in possession of a fragment of stellacite? This was unsettling news. He suspected Ilka had things she was hiding from him. Her visit was somewhat useful, but it seemed like she was trying to cover something else up. Geralt did not enjoy using the influence of Signs, he preferred to get the truth straight from the person. But what choice did he have, more lives were at stake the longer he waited to take action. He felt his next logical move was to consult again with the blacksmith, then he’d go out and face this alleged monster himself. 

*

Geralt awakes to the sound of screams coming from downstairs. The raw, guttural hysterics of a bawling woman grace him like an early morning melody as he gathers his things and makes his way to the ground floor. He readies his hand at his blade, although he senses that whatever danger may have occurred, it has long since passed.

“I swear- he was with me all night. I don’t understand!! How could this happen!”

Ilka is kneeling on the wooden floorboards, her red skirt pooling like spilt blood as she clutches the innkeeper's apron with a fierce determination. Her face is blotchy red and tear streaked, eyes puffy from crying. She is gripping her necklace in one hand as if threatening to tear it off, her whole body shaking in time with her sobbing. No one is helping her. 

A small crowd has gathered in the inn, a few soldiers with grave faces loom to one side of the crying woman, with other curious onlookers lying in wait. Geralt pushes his way through a couple people, eliciting complaints from a few villagers. He walks over to the soldiers, who are muttering amongst themselves. Poor wench, he hears one of them say. 

“What happened here?”

One of them regards him with a weary look, shifting his helmet before addressing him. 

“Another attack, it happened late last night. We found what was left of the poor sod lying in the snow by the gate. His wife’s been screaming like a banshee all morning.” 

Well shit. There goes another person to the whims of this mystery beast. He was beginning to tire of this situation, no one ever seemed to give him enough answers.

“Any sign of the beast at all?”

“None. If it weren’t for the occasional body part and missing person cases, I wouldn’t even believe it exists.”

Geralt turns back, wandering over to face Ilka, bending down until he is level with her. He gestures quickly as to not draw attention to his actions, calming her down with the Axii Sign. 

“Go. Get some rest.”

She stands up as if in a stupor and trudges off towards the back of the inn. He makes his way outside as the people around him start to filter back into the streets. There is a gathering at the front of the village, where a small patch of scorched earth sits like a black stain amidst the snow. Like before, the area reeks of magic. Geralt has seen enough. He soon finds himself outside the blacksmiths knocking firmly on his wooden door. 

“Open up, it’s Geralt. I have some more questions for you.”

There’s a dull thud and the sound of a latch being undone. The door opens ever so slightly and a pair of dark eyes stare out warily. 

“Is it really you? Please come in quickly, I can’t have anyone see. Folks are already mightily suspicious.”

He makes his way inside the smithery, sitting himself down on a small wooden stool. The room is warm, the smell of woodsmoke burning strong in the air.

“Why did you-“

The blacksmith interjects.

“I need to tell you about-“

They both pause, and Geralt sighs. 

“I’m the one asking questions here. I need to know why you hired me. Why aren’t the villagers more concerned about a violent monster on the loose.”

“I already told you why, Witcher. I want justice for my wife and innocent people are being killed day and night. As for the village, the innkeeper said to pay it no mind, he said so long as we didn’t give it any attention it would stop coming after us. He was a mighty superstitious man, hardly believed in anything like monsters or magic, and was distrusting of those who do. Well… look where that got him, that stupid shithead.”

“Mhmm.”

He watches the blacksmith carefully, noting the growing anger in his voice at the mention of the innkeeper. He had sensed a tension between them before, he meant to ask him about it, but it seemed a touchy subject. 

“So, what did you have to tell me about?”

“The innkeeper's wife, I saw her mumbling like a madwoman as I left your room last night. She was curled in the yard, clutching this strange stone. I’d have believed she was a sorceress, if she’d had any looks going for her. Alas, nothing but a raving witch. Why else would she be reciting nonsense incantations at ungodly hours?”

“Witchcraft you say? Did you see what she was doing with the stone?”

“I didn’t get a good look, since I was in a hurry to leave- the innkeep scares me you see- but I saw the thing glow, and her face took on an awful pallor, like yours. Rest assured I mean no offense to you Witcher.”

“Hmm. This changes things. You see, Ilka came to me last night also, she told me about the creature, even let me touch this strange stone you mentioned. She has come into possession of a stellacite shard, a powerful ancient magic source drawn from monoliths. Theoretically, it should be harmless to a mere human, but something seems to be feeding it power. It’s definitely tied to the monster plaguing your village.”

“She should be punished. She could be a murderer for all we know! Geralt, you have to do something.”

“The woman is not my problem, I’m more concerned about the monster. We don’t even know if she is aware of the stone's power. Often magic can take advantage of its users, preying on emotions. I deal in the business of killing monsters, not humans. Whatever punishment she receives will be given within the law, it will  not be decided by me.”

Geralt shifts uneasily on his seat. He could choose to confront the woman, try and probe her for evidence of targeted killings. Or… he could simply hunt the beast and be done with this whole ordeal. He’d prefer to settle for the latter, but this was simply too much of a clusterfuck to not at least try and fix things properly first. He supposes it would be good to destroy that monolith fragment, he can hear the distant complaints of the many insulted mages he’d no doubt have to face if he let it be. Istredd's voice comes to mind and he grimaces. He gets up to leave, turning away from the blacksmith, who remains simmering with a quiet rage. The blacksmith calls out to him as he slips out the door. 

“Geralt? What do you mean to do? You aren’t going to try and reason with her are you?? Geralt?”

The blacksmith's pleas reach empty ears, the Witcher is already long gone. 

*

Geralt rests a hand firmly on his steel sword as he opens the door to the inn. The main room is quiet and completely empty, the innkeepers apron still laying discarded, strewn across the floor. He treads lightly across the floorboards, listening to the creaking of the wood and the light nervous breathing coming from the back of the room. 

“I can hear you.”

He speaks calmly but coldly, approaching the door to the storeroom. The room remains silent, before a muffled sob fades through the wall. 

“I didn’t mean to do it, Witcher, I swear .”

He keeps his voice flat and disinterested. 

“Mmm. I’m sure the villagers would believe you. Now tell me the truth Ilka, so I can walk out of here, kill this creature and get my reward. I have other matters to attend to in the North. I’m losing my patience with you, and this fucking village. Choose your words wisely, and I promise not to hurt you.”

“After I saw the thing in the woods, that’s when they started, the whispers. They promised me power and revenge, I let my emotions control me. I think it’s the stone, but I can’t get rid of it. Every time it leaves my possession the voices get louder and louder, only stopping when I have it back in my grasp. It’s unbearable, I can’t take it anymore! ”

So it was as he suspected, the stellacite had summoned some sort of monster. A monster that preyed off of the emotions of others, no doubt it had been absorbing the fear and hate of the villagers for weeks. However, nothing could compare to the aura of anger emanating from the women before him, she was its source. 

“Did you command it to kill those innocent people? How does it communicate?”

“I didn’t kill them, not directly. Although, I think it listens to my thoughts, becomes… inspired by them. My husband deserved his fate regardless, that whoreson, he cheated on me with the blacksmith's wife ! He had it coming to him, and the other woman too. It’s better this way, to be rid of them. I do feel bad about the other villagers though, that was not my idea in the slightest.”

Geralt thought of the blacksmith, his crazed eyes as he spoke of the innkeeper. Things were beginning to make more sense, the pieces sliding into place. Ilka was not a murderer, but she wasn’t exactly to be absolved from blame. 

“So what are you going to do now? I can easily expose you to the village. I assume you can’t just go and call the monster off of its rampage.”

The door creaks open as Ilka stands before him in the main room, out in the open with her hands fastened around the stone. She has a look of what Geralt can only describe as sorrowful regret on her face. Her eyes suddenly roll back into her head and she goes perfectly still before tremoring, small spasms rocking her body. Geralt leaps forward as the stone around her neck begins to pulsate with light. The voice that spills forth from her mouth is hers, yet not, it carries an awful weight like a sack of grain with a scraping edge. He feels a sensation akin to many people speaking at once, and his medallion trembles wildly. 

“Foolish girl, her anger has given way to fear and weakness. No matter, her use has passed, I will not let her help you any more. Your time is up, Geralt of Rivia. I’ll be waiting.”

How cleverly cruel , Geralt thinks. The monster planted itself on a willing and vulnerable victim, exploiting her need for revenge to suit its own desires for violence. The stone was a way to provide the initial energy to summon itself from beyond this sphere. It seems it has finally gathered enough power to manifest itself fully. He’d faced creatures from monoliths before, and he’d do it again. It was time for the creature to get a visit from the White Wolf.

*

The body of Ilka lies collapsed on the floor, her breathing slow and shallow, unconscious. He tears the necklace from her body, seeing her hand twitch as it leaves her vicinity. He places it on the ground and stamps on it, crushing it underfoot. To be safe, he takes out a vial from his pocket, brushes the remains of the stellacite inside, and fetches a small magical seal to close it off with. With luck, a mage would pay good money for these scraps, even in a crushed form. 

He turns his attention back to Ilka, lifting her up into his arms and walking up the stairs into her room. He sets her down on the bed and casts the Sign of Axii over her. 

“Rest, and wake in the morning. You will be truthful and confess to your actions.”

She moans softly, turning on the bed. He leaves her there, shutting the door quietly on the way out. He crosses the hall into his own room and closes the door behind him. He unsheathes his silver sword and gets to work on preparations. The blade whines as he sharpens and polishes it, ready for nightfall. From what little information he did get, the creature seems to be active at night, so that’s when it will be easiest to locate. He takes a small leather pouch from his side, unrolling rows of small glass vials fastened to the material tucked inside. He also fetches a metal square box, no bigger than the palm of his hand. He selects a few powders from the box- hawthorn, banewort, veratrum and others- to combine with a murky dark liquid in one of the vials. Satisfied, he pockets two vials of the elixir and folds the rest of the ingredients away. He has a hunch that this will prove to be a tough fight, so having the right potions will be critical to his chances of success, even if he will feel like shit afterwards. He huffs out a sigh, stretching out his limbs across the hard mattress. With luck, he’d be out of this village before dawn tomorrow. 

Geralt lies in wait for the light behind the windows to fade to early evening, watching as the clouds roll in over the village. He leaves his room shortly after, finding the inn completely silent, the sounds of Ilkas breathing emanating softly from her room, still asleep. He walks out the front door, shouldering his two blades. He heads for the village entrance, ready to track down this monster once and for all. 

*

The sky outside is dim, lanterns bathing the village in an orange glow as snow falls onto the ground in soft waves. Geralt can feel the cold air nip at his fingers, the snow settling on his armor before turning to wet mush. He walks down the main path towards the woods, the icy ground crunching under his boots. He stops at the stables on the way out to check up on Roach, giving her side a reassuring pat. She nuzzles his hand with her head, ears twitching. She snorts restlessly under his cold touch. 

“Easy Roach, we’ll be out of here by morning, I promise.” 

The woods lay silent, trees rustling faintly as the snow hits their spindly branches. Geralt takes out one of his small vials, rips off the wax seal and swallows the contents whole. The elixir works quickly, the chill spreading through his body, his limbs becoming simultaneously light and heavy, new strength coursing through his veins. His eyes gather into shadows, swirling black as pitch, veins mapping his skin like dark threads, spreading across his face and hands. He knew if someone were to look at him, they’d describe his countenance to that of a corpse, paper white skin and hollow eyes. He’d certainly live up to his mutant name. 

The effects of the elixir settle down soon enough, the noises of the forest filtering through louder and clearer, the trees further away sharpening into greater focus despite the encroaching darkness. His pupils narrow into vertical slits like  a cat's eyes, his hands twitching, eager for the fight that has yet to arrive. He stalks off into the snow, tracing his way from the blackened stain at the entrance to the village back into the forest, following the trail of magic. His heightened senses allow him to monitor his surroundings down to the tiniest detail, the dripping of water from the branches, the way the temperature drops colder the further into the trees he ventures. He follows the scent trail deeper and deeper into the woods, the trees becoming closer and closer together. 

Twigs snap underfoot as he wanders further into the trees. The light of the village has faded away, night has settled in permanently. Darkness is no issue for a Witcher, his attention is entirely taken over with tracking the creature. He finally reaches the end of the magic trail and stops to look around. He is surrounded on all sides by tall trees, black in the darkness, larger and closer than the ones he left behind nearer the path. The forest feels more aggressive here, nature designed to trap those who stray far from civilization. A tree creaks overhead and Geralt draws his silver sword out, responding with lighting reflexes. His medallion begins to quiver and vibrate, a sure sign of the monster nearby. He settles into a fighting stance with ease, constantly scanning the perimeter of the trees for any movement. He strains his ears and shifts backwards, barely dodging a cascading wave of shadow as it pours forth from between the trees, surrounding him in a murky cloud. Tree trunks hiss and sizzle as the darkness presses up against them, leaving charred surfaces in its wake. The damage was identical to that of the cart wheel, and the stain in the snow. 

At long last, Geralt thinks. Here is my monster. 

“ Witcher. ” 

A terrible buzzing sound worms its way into Geralt's ears. The creature purrs its words like a swarm of angry wasps. He casts out the Quen Sign for protection, the soft glowing hemisphere falling around his line of sight as it shields him from any potential harm. Geralt grits his teeth, yelling back at the darkness. He is tired of playing games with this thing. 

“Reveal yourself, monster. You’re not a werewolf nor a Bruxa, clearly not a Striga or a Kikimora either. You’re nothing like those common beasts, you’re something old, something ancient. Tell me, could a creature such as you have witnessed even the Conjunction itself?”

A silent response. The air around him shimmers thickly with magic. Geralt grins viciously, a mockery of a smile, taunting the creature. The cloud writhes around him, folding in on itself like a fragmented kaleidoscope of shadow. He can make out twisted shapes in the formless mass, the screaming head of a griffin, a huge vicious dog, the vague form of a man. An endless puppet show of monsters, rendered in mist. He tightens his hands tighter around his sword as a pressure begins to build in his ears. 

“You bore me with your flattery, Geralt of Rivia.”

The creature hisses and hums, shifting the shadows around him in an ever moving veil. Was it concealing with the smoke, or attacking? He takes a test swing at the darkness, his silver blade flying right through it like air. Gaseous tendrils lap at the base of his magic shield like a tide creeping its way up the shore, his magic shuddering with every hit. Between the concentration of maintaining the Sign, and the numbness starting to creep through his limbs from the elixir, Geralt could tell this would not be an easy fight. 

The mist begins to form more densely, shaping itself into ghostly faces, clawed hands and sharp talons. His shield wavers with the effort of holding the Sign, and Geralt leaps out of the way as a spectral hand of shadow attempts to clutch at his legs. It nearly makes it through the barrier, a strange burning sensation hovering through the air in its wake. He tries to slash the thing away, but yet again his sword merely passes through the ghostly hand as if it weren’t there. 

“I wonder, do you have a physical form? I’ve fought many monsters that don’t wish to be hit- foglets, wraiths… hmm, this usually does the trick.” 

Geralt has to time his hit perfectly, driving the barrier out of him in a shockwave, it ripples through the air, dispersing the dark clouds around him. He pivots in a half turn, one hand sweeping his blade in a graceful arc as the other comes around to throw out the Sign of Yrden where the density of shadows seems the strongest. The purple signs illuminate the snow at his feet, and the mist writhes agitatedly where he trapped it. At last, he could find this thing's true body and attack where it would hurt. He can hear blood pounding through his ears as his pulse beats in its irregularly slow motion. He hesitates, clenching his jaw tight as he prepares to launch himself at the trapped creature. With the last remnants of elixir strength thrumming in his veins, Geralt steps a foot carefully over into his magic circle. This is his first mistake. 

As soon as his boot hits the snow over one of the signs, he hears the delayed hiss of wood from behind him, as a handful of shadowy tendrils shoot out and latch around his legs. The pulsating cloud in front of him swarms closer and closer together, as the sound of buzzing drowns out his thoughts. He can feel the mist biting through his leather, the smell of burning filling his nostrils. He tries to kick out his feet, slashing wildly at the shadows that shackle him to the ground. As he struggles, his signs waver and fade. The Witcher curses softly under his breath, he was trapped. He looks up from wrestling with his incorporeal chains just in time to see something emerge from the shadows. At last the monster decides to show itself , he thinks. Head pounding from the herbs he’d stuffed into himself, Geralt then makes his second mistake. The creature had left his hands free, rather foolish of the monster , he had thought. Keeping his eyes locked in front of him, he reaches with his sword-free hand and latches onto a bomb he’d tucked in one of his punches, for just this type of sticky situation. He lobs it towards the seething mass of darkness, and it sizzles as it slowly counts down. 

The Witcher counts in his head: one - he crouches to the ground, pulling his sword in close enough to stab his feet before twisting violently around, until the tendrils that had latched on are forced to let go for just a moment- two - he turns back to the creature, watching as the loaded bomb sparks alight, hovering in mid air. He snatches the last vial from his pouch and drinks it down, ignoring every part of his body screaming for him to stop- three- the bomb explodes in a flash of light and everything goes dark. 

Geralt flattens himself onto the cold snowy ground, waiting out the blast. His limbs are buzzing with more latent energy, and his leg guards seem scorched and torn, but otherwise ok. He slowly peels himself off of the ground to survey his surroundings, which is when he notices the trees are gone. Everything around him is black, as if the sky was an endless stretch of night. He picks up on the heavy, cloying scent of magic again, as the night seems to ripple and shift around him. Not out of the water yet , he thinks- this was just the beginning. 

The dome shudders and seethes like an angry storm, yet remains firm around him. He rights himself again, balancing out his stance whilst carefully gazing around in the pseudo-darkness. It isn’t actually dark, yet the blackened dome gives the impression that he's trapped in a sphere of night, despite being able to see clearly in all directions. 

“Little Witcher, trapped like a rat. What will you do now?”

The thing makes a noise akin to the monotonous drone of a machine, which he can only take to be laughter. His head fills again with that overwhelming static sound as strange white shapes begin to appear in the gloom. He keeps his eyes on the objects as they slide into focus, long and thin, the color of ivory. Geralt realizes with a start they are skeletal hands, no doubt taken from corpses. The pair of hands pierce through the dark veil like it isn’t there, and a larger form soon follows. The monster shows itself to him at last. Part Grimalkin, part ancient Lich, the creature towers above him, its boney hands clicking and rattling as it parts the magic barrier. The shadows roll off it in tendrils, the majority of its form seems to be physically made from them, he notes with curiosity. Its chest is an old and leathery ribcage, distended almost beyond recognition, it pulses faintly, filled with mist. A bright light burns at its core like a small sun, shining purple and white, casting a glow upon the surrounding darkness. The beast towers several feet in the air, hovering there above him. Finally Geralt lifts his gaze to its face, or lack thereof. An animal skull floats cleanly in the air, held up by dense smoke, with darkened pits instead of eyes. Two horns curl from its masked head, whether from the same animal, or somewhere else, he could not tell. It raises a bony hand at him, lifting a sole finger. Geralt feels a flash of heat across his cheek, and black blood trickles slowly down his face. He hardly saw the thing move, it must have bypassed all of his senses. He has to admit he’s impressed. 

He wipes the back of his hand across his face, steadying his breaths. He still doesn’t know what he’s facing here, some sort of creature that looks like a lich in appearance, with the shadowy form of a Foglet or Grimm. He would have reckoned it’s the work of necromancy of some sort, if he didn’t already know its origins. This was a monster from beyond their sphere, the villagers would stand no chance against it. He thinks back to the feeble blacksmith, and the unfortunate innkeeper's wife. They were in over their heads, this creature devoured their fear and apprehension like a hearty breakfast. Crushing the stellacite should have weakened its power output slightly, saving Ilka from any more involvement. A headache is worming its way into the forefront of his thoughts, as Geralt concentrates on solving the problem set before him. It’s only been a few seconds since the creature lashed out, and judging from its attack patterns, it seems to be toying with him. He runs through his options: continue to defend, find a weak spot, or run. Running was never an option, not now. He was going to leave here with a dead monster or not leave at all. He sets his sights on the pulsating core in the creature's chest, budding distances, timing, speed and other factors. His body yearns for the strain of a good fight, despite the ache in his leg, and the slashes across his face. Geralt shifts his weight into his left leg, preparing to attack at any moment. The creature retracts its arm, shifting and coiling ready to strike. It tilts its skeletal mask of a face downwards, as if staring at him. The shadows surrounding them twist and shimmer. 

“I see the Wolf still has some bite left. I am older and wiser than you can imagine, I will not go down easily. You may have taken my energy source, but not my strength.”

Geralt grips his tightly sword in one hand, knuckles white from the force of it. He furrows his eyebrows, looking at the creature in agitation. 

“Fuck your elaborate threats. You are responsible for the deaths of many, for that you shall pay in blood.”

He shoots forth his other hand, casting the sign of Igni as a blinding hot wave of fire disperses the smoke and shadows. Geralt glimpses the white of the snow covered trees, the grey clouds and the light pre dawn sky, littered with stars. He looks up for just a fraction of a second, before snapping to attention, his eyes narrowing in focus on the monster. He sees it writhing in the fire, coalescing and dispersing, its molten core staying firmly in place throughout the darkened veils and claws and mist. He zones in on the glow and charges straight for it, throwing out a Yrden sign to keep it contained in the one spot. The thing shrieks as it writhes against the barrier, the sound slashing through Geralt's mind like steel cutting bone, buzzing and pulsing with a horrible din. A group of crows flap their way angrily up into the sky, cawing loudly against the fluctuating dark barrier. His silver sword whistles through the air with a swish, moving at near incomprehensible speeds to slam directly into the heart of the monster. It meets little resistance as the metal rends through flesh, sinew, smoke and bone. His Witcher’s blade hits the glowing core and instantly slows, slicing as if through thickened syrup. He drives the metal home with both hands fastened around the hilt of his sword, twisting hard with a sickening crunch. The creature barely reacts, the shadows converting far more movement as they spike and dip with a varying sense of urgency. The dark dome around them shimmers and disperses upon the wind, leaving the serene scenery of the forest looking over them. The creature sags and evaporates towards the snow, tendrils coiling and hissing as they melt the ice to slush. A terrible screech sounds throughout the clearing, before a silence so deep that Geralt hears the bounding of his blood in his ears as if it were a hammer striking an anvil. A faint whisper rolls by him on the breeze. 

“A time was foretold. The Gwynbleidd rises with the moon, he brings with him bountiful death, hovering on silent wings. Destiny has greater plans for you.”

Geralt's boot crunch as he steps onto the simmering pile of burnt human remains, the last remnants of the creature. The bones smell heavily of magic, but the scent fades with every second. He spits onto the bones, black blood trickling thickly into the snow. 

“I don’t give a shit about destiny.”

A loud ringing starts up again in his ears, and Geralt shoves his sword into the ground, leaning heavily upon the pommel. He is aware of a distant ache in his body, strengthening gradually from the tips of his limbs. His face feels frozen, and his hand slips on the grip of his sword. The smell of ash and blood fills his nostrils, the world is spinning…Geralt hears a distant shouting, the chords of a faraway song, a tinkling laughter he’d recognise anywhere. A flash of violet, plum pink, goose feathers, lilac, the plucking of lute strings…he falls into the embrace of the abyss. 

*

Something wet, sticky and warm drags itself across Geralt's face. He blinks through the moisture, feeling warm air plume across his face. He stares directly into the eyes of Roach, as she licks his face, snorting happily. He reaches a hand up to stroke her chestnut mane, his arm aching like dead weight. The scenery around him slowly comes into focus, the net of trees looking over the sky, the pale blue light of early morning. He tries to sit up, but shudders halfway off the ground, his limbs shaking. He lies back in the snow in defeat. He’s lying in the same clearing from earlier, burn marks scratched across the tree trunks, with a dark stain scorched into the ground near his hand. He stretches to the left, feeling for his sword hilt, discarded, the metal frozen through and slick with condensation. Geralt uses the blade as a prop to lean on as he pushes himself up to his feet, with a slight struggle. Roach stamps her hooves and trots over to nuzzle her head in his hands.

“Good girl, easy now Roach. How’d you find me out here all alone?”

He catches sight of a roll of parchment sticking out from her saddle bags, along with his steel sword and other belongings that had been left in town. He pulls the paper out, and a small leather pouch is attached. It clinks faintly as he rummages through the contents. He fetches out a solid handful of Orens, and a sizable amethyst. Geralt sighs, grumbling under his breath. 

“The villagers will pay well , you said… What a load of horseshit. I could hardly buy passage to Novigrad with this, and the river fares keep growing by the day. The amethyst would serve a better use as jewelry than a sellable item.”

Geralt checks the letter next, written hastily in a sprawling hand, the parchment covered in soot. 

We thought you dead, as white as stone you looked, eyes clouded black like some sort of demon. Your horse managed to free itself and led me to you. I’ve seen the charred remains on the ground, and give my utmost thanks. Best not to come back to the village, there was a flash of light in the woods, Ilka fell down soon after as if in a heavy stupor. It seems justice has been wrought, we all have our price to pay. Good luck on your travels north, Wolf. 

He crumples the paper in his fist. So much for earning respect, that village has none left in it , Geralt thinks. It was a small pity about the woman, the price you pay for messing with dark forces beyond your control. He takes a quick inventory, ensuring everything is present and accounted for- swords, elixirs, potions. The forest lies still around him, birdsong floating through the snowy branches, a sign of life returning. He turns in the direction of the village, straining to pick up the sounds of humans coming and going busily about their day. Roaches breath cokes like plumes upon the cold air, and he goes to hoist himself into the saddle, the stiffness in his limbs intensifying. The day after taking elixirs was always the worst, and these days it seemed to take him longer and longer to recover. His leg aches with cold as it rests upon the horse's side, and he looks down for the first time at his tattered legs, the leather burnt and torn from where the creature had its hold. Pale flesh peeks through where the fabric has been torn, smudges of black blood stain his trousers. Luckily, his wounds seem to have healed quickly overnight, despite the lingering pain in his body. His cheek throbs fully, and he brings his fingertips to run across a deep gash- not healed. Another monster, another scar. Some of the more powerful adversaries he’d faced always left their mark, as if unwilling to fade entirely from existence, they lived on through him, a living map of battles lost. 

Geralt nudges Roach on with a gentle press of his boots. Shouldering his swords, he turns towards the trail and canters off into the snow, leaving behind the last signs of civilization like dust under his horses hooves. His purse jingles with meager coin, his body has been pushed to the limit, his patience is long gone. Yet still, the Witcher must pursue his next contract. 

*

Several days later, somewhere in Novigrad.

“Hold up a minute Geralt- villagers who refused to let you deal with a monster, a commoner in possession of ancient magic, and a fight with a creature that managed to actually wound you… all for the measly pay of a poor cuckold?? A d'yaebl aép arse, this village sounds like a right pain to deal with. If I were you, I’d have just left them all to rot and been on my merry way. Heroes deserve glory and praise, not a kick up the backside and hardly a penny left to call their own.”

“I'm a Witcher, not a hero. I’m just doing my job, as best I can. Plus, I didn't promise it would be a satisfying story.”

Dandelion makes a face at him, huffing in mock frustration. Nevertheless, his eyes light up with renewed curiosity. 

“I would have thought such a significant delay for you would merit a good reason. I know you’d never be late to a job on purpose.”

“I wasn’t late, simply cutting it a little close. Besides, my client was a wealthy nobleman whose family graveyard gained a wraith infestation. He was so glad to be rid of the pests, he was willing to pay me double regardless of my punctuality.”

Geralt smiles, although it’s more of a grimace, placing his purse on the table with a heavy thud. Dandelion notes the slowness of his actions, and the dark circles that fade into the shadows of his eyes. He produces a small carafe from the bookshelf at his side, pouring out two glasses and sliding one over to his friend. 

“I feel like we need a drink. Sweet wine, it’s on me- another perk of the job.”

Dandelion pulls out his lute from under the table, fiddling excitedly with the brim of his plum colored hat. 

“How delightful! Certainly a respectable fellow, this nobleman client of yours. Anyways, back to the story. As you were saying, the monster was 8 feet tall, its hands made from human remains… shrouded in a dark and impenetrable mist, with a lifeless face devoid of expression? Sounds like the stuff of proper nightmares, not unlike most of the usual monsters you tell me about. Are you sure it wasn’t a Lich?”

His queries die out with a firm shake from Geralt's head, as he sips silently on his wine. He strums out a few rogue chords, notes hovering expectantly in the air. 

“Let me see… It came on wings as black as the brooding night, eyes aflame it beckons forth with the hands of those lost to time. Beware frail mortals, of the beast who preys on fears and dark desires. Such a creature who gives even Witchers a difficult time must be avoided lest your life go to waste. No, no, no. That’s not quite right, I think it needs a more menacing tone… ”

“Hmm… what was it you said about my story not being good enough for you?”

“Oh, pox on it. I could never resist using such a fascinating creature as a poetic subject. You mentioned it may have come from before the conjunction itself? Is something like that even possible? I thought the Witchers had killed everything left from that time.”

Geralt hesitates, treading carefully with his words. He did not wish to endanger the Bard with such information that could cause him trouble if fallen into the wrong hands. He certainly knew how Dandelion could talk when pried with a little pressure or flattery. 

“Well, the woman I mentioned happened to come across some powerful old magic. These types of events are rare, but it is possible for beings to come through from other spheres, under the right conditions. I didn’t want the mages getting involved with it, so I decided to deal with the problem myself. It’s a pity I didn’t get here sooner, I could have prevented dozens of deaths. There’s nothing to worry about now- you’ve barely touched your drink. Don’t put on that worried face, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Seems like you had a tough job. It must have been a pretty strong monster, to land a hit on you. That cut on your face looks gnarly, it’s the worst I’ve seen since that Striga got your neck.”

Geralt runs his fingers across the scar tracing his cheek, the one that no amount of healing elixirs nor magic could seem to dissipate. A testament to the damaging power of old magic. He rarely scarred, a sign of a true fight, another mark upon his skin. He got away with a flesh wound, whilst Ilka paid with her life. 

“I may be a mutant, but I still bleed. I’ve got plenty of other scars, Dandelion. They serve as reminders.”

 “Of all the things you’ve killed?”

“No, of the imminence of death, even for someone like me. It’s almost comforting.”

“Well shit, you didn’t need to bring down the mood Geralt. You sound like an old man on his deathbed, you sure everything’s ok?”

Geralt takes a long pause, taking a long drink. He grumbles, fixing Dandelion with a hard stare.

“Don’t you sense it? There’s death in the air Dandelion, a war is coming. This time I feel that we won’t escape it so easily. No matter how hard I try, I can’t outrun the clutches of destiny.” 

*

Amidst the throng of a busy tavern, a purple clad bard picks up his lute. The crowd cheers as he picks out the gentle notes of a song. 

Where the snow falls thick as ash, 

In valleys dull and grey,

The beast of West Temeria,

Upon poor fools it preys. 

The Witcher traveled far and wide,

Through forests thickened with the dead,

An ancient magic beckoned him,

It filled his stone cold heart with dread. 

With silvered sword and battered steel,

A fearsome monster he did find,

‘Twas in a woman born of gentle soul,

Her vengeance with hate intertwined.

A creature hellish made of shadow born,

Bone hands with smoke as black as pitch,

It called to him with lovers croon,

“Join me in death, our time ends soon” 

“Join me in the dark, White Wolf of the moon” 

Despite the people’s shouts and cries,

Of “leave” and “bugger off”,

The Witcher fought with tooth and claw,

To save those who’d rather cast him off. 

Left on cold ground all alone,

Geralt could only sigh,

With beggars coin he did depart,

Towards forests with more northern sky.

But this is just a tale you see,

Take caution and take heed,

The price of fear’s too much for me,

Strange shadows ancient monsters be,

Old wonders born of devils creed. 

The price of fear’s too much for me,

But this is just a tale you see.